Honor Amongst Thieves
by CWprodigy
Summary: A new organization is thriving in Gotham city. Members of the Rogues gallery are forced to work with the BAU. It would be easy, if the Joker wasn't such a wildcard.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: See bottom note. **

X

The streets of Gotham are slick from a previous rainfall and judging by the rumblings of the gray heaven above, the rain would be picking up soon. His companions seem to realize this, tilting their chins as if listening for something as they quicken their strides. It is late, a little after two and the lights illuminating the streets cast a glow over him, giving it a green ting.

The dreary mist of an oncoming rain dances through his dirty blonde curls. They haven't been their natural color in God knows how long and seeing the normalcy in murky rain puddles and reflective office building windows makes some unfamiliar feelings pool in his stomach.

He doesn't bother to identify them, merely runs the pads of his fingers over the sharp edges of blades hidden in his pants pockets, finding reassurance in the way they knick at his skin.

"Do you _really_ think this is a good idea?" He asks to no one in particular, watching, as gutter-punks and prostitutes seem fearfully frozen as they walk past, wincing at the shrill car horns and occasional cars.

"It's not like we have much choice," Pamela comments. She's on his right, voice edged with irritation but he knows it's not directed at him, rather at the situation. His flickering green eyes scan over her profile, taking in the smoothness of her cheekbones, hinting at foreign blood, and the audible clicking of her heeled boots against the littered pavement. Selina is at her right, following stride for stride.

Crow merely shrugs non-committedly at his left, arm leaving his shoulders and running a careful thumb over the latex and make-up sculpted over his mutilated cheeks. Jonathan's body is controlled by Scarecrow today, and while most would think his other half is a work of deranged fiction, there is a definite difference.

They share a charged look, and it's quite clear that the Joker is trying to decide if he should find comfort in the touch or if he should gut the other man like a rancid fish for having the audacity to do such a thing.

The look passes and Crow glances away, glaring at the fearful and angry expressions being tossed their way. The only ones they can't recognize is Selina Kyle because her cat-burglary wasn't enough to strike fear into the hearts of lower class citizens and the Joker simply because he's disguised.

He hopes no one tries to confront them because he can't be liable for anyone's actions.

"You did tell him you were coming?" Selina shoots the question at the Joker, leveling him with a searching look. He glances at her, smile tugging the corner of his plump lips.

"_Of course_ I called," the harlequin answers with ease, then in a soft mutter. "But I never said he answered."

His phone vibrates and he snatches at it with a gnarled grunt.

"_Yes_...what…no I already told you. Fix it…I don't know how, just fucking do it!"

The silence that follows is thick and the other criminals sneak glances. The harlequin sighs, licking the corners of his mouth and tasting latex.

"Trouble with the boys?" Pamela teases.

"Nothin too major but it'll take awhile," he dismisses. "I'll meet you at the spot. Just tell Batsy I'll be a tad late for the FBI's little welcome party."

X

Spencer Reid allows his eyes to rove over the chaos of the MCU. Phones and criminals held in cells are wailing but nearly all motion was stilled by the BAU's arrival. The cops' stares range from one's of fearful curiosity to hostile contempt, and the doctor allows a tired sigh to escape his throat because he knows this case won't be easy.

They'd been called in just this morning, earlier than usual and were briefed on the plane. A new organization was rising in Gotham.

"I apologize for the wait." The Commissioner walks up to Hotch, offering his strong hand in a firm shake.

"It's not a problem, really." Hotch is quick to reassure him, taking in the other's wrinkled dress shirt, stained and skewed tie. His face is dotted with sunspots and laugh lines but judging by the grim line of mouth under his graying mustache, he hasn't laughed in a long while. His hair is dotted with shades of gray, glasses worn and slightly skewed on his face.

The rest of the team is fanned out behind him, standing tall and stoic. The cops stand behind the commissioner like a team of his own. It looks as though they're two warring cities that have reached a stalemate.

"May I introduce my team?" Hotch asks in a baritone clarity.

The commissioner offers a jerky nod. Hotch turns away, nodding at his team to come forward.

"This is our communications liaison, Jennifer Jureau, SA Derek Morgan, SA Emily Prentiss, SSA David Rossi, and Dr. Spencer Reid. Our tech, Penelope Garcia will be joining us via webcam."

The agents nod as they're ticked off by their leader, offering what they hope are calm expressions and not ones of superiority. Gordon nods, trying to commit the names to memory as a young beat cop ambles up to him nervously.

"The room is all set up, Sir." He glances at the FBI agents, mouth twitching in a self-conscious smile.

"Thank you officer Tate. Agents if you'll follow me." He leads them with long, purposeful strides while officer Tate follows him. They talk to each other, Reid notes, as he hears snatches of a question about Tate's kids. Jim Gordon is a man who cares about his officers, about his city.

They go down freshly painted corridors with large windows and clean floors. Reid knows the building is recently reconstructed. He's read about Gotham, about the costumed freaks and the Joker, the biggest freak of them all. It's fascinating from a psychological standpoint, how Gotham seems to be a breeding ground for broken psyches and criminals with a flair for drama, a love of lighter fluid.

"Here's the room. We got everything you requested, files, white board, maps…" He trails off as he opens the door. The room is large. It's a nice break from the back rooms and broom closets they're usually forced into.

The whiteboard looks never used, shining glossily from the overhead fluorescent lights. Expo markers in a multitude of colors are set neatly on the table along with a thin case files, and a large map of Gotham spread out on the wooden tabletop. A flat screen television is pushed to the side and a coffeemaker sits atop a table in the corner.

"Wow," Prentiss says, because one whole wall is a window, showing off a view of Gotham's skyscrapers.

"Is that Wayne Towers?" J.J. asks, looking at a building in the distance than stands taller than the rest, strangely gothic against the gray sky, tall and foreboding.

"That's right," Tate confirms. "Wayne enterprises funds a majority of the hospitals, orphanages, research labs, and law enforcement facilities in Gotham. He actually paid for this new building."

There's a moment of fleeting awe amongst them because the MCU is practically a fortress with expensive details that make it all the more impressing.

"How much money does this guy have?" Morgan asks, tone still peppered with bits of awe and slight envy. He can't fathom that amount of money going to law enforcement alone and he wonders if that's a sad thought or if it's merely a reality.

"He's actually the third richest in the world, beating out Tony Stark," Reid informs, taking a seat in a large, cushioned swivel chair. "Gotham is the leader in innovations for three types of cancer, diabetes, and tuberculosis with the help of Bruce Wayne. Its also a trailblazer in education reform and childhood advocacy."

"Yes, Bruce Wayne cares about this city," Gordon agrees, staring at the structure with a blank expression. "But if you don't mind I'd like to get back to the matter at hand."

Hotch nods in approval, as the rest of the agents take their seats around the table, skimming through the files.

"But first there's something I need to tell you all."

A phone vibrates against the suddenly thick air and the commissioner excuses himself. He already knows what this is about.

Hotch braces himself, glancing at the curious faces of his team. The lines between family and subordinates have become blurred over the years.

"We'll be working with another team," he says voice treading and careful. He sees the confusion set in on all of their faces but as per usual, Rossi is the first to speak it.

"That's nothing new," the aging Italian states, looking at Morgan who nods his support.

"Yeah," the black agent agrees. "It's always been a partnership between us and the local PD. Gotham is no different."

But they all seem to know that Gotham is different. It's a damned place with corruption and crime painting the streets crimson.

"No, I mean another FBI team, like us." He sees the questions bubbling in their throats and he puts up a hand to silence them.

"This unit is comprised of five individuals all with a unique set of skills. They are stationed in Gotham and the higher-ups don't believe GCPD can handle this situation so they were called in. They are known as A6-17."

He waits for the questions that he can't answer, the explanations he's not authorized to give but will. He's met with silence. He glances at all their faces and sees as they process the news. Rossi has his lips pursed, Reid has his head cocked to the side, Morgan is staring at his hands, and J.J. and Prentiss are looking at each other in some sort of telepathy only women seem to have.

"So," Prentiss says carefully, clearing her throat. There's no need though; the room is silent. "These people are like the A-team."

A sigh escapes through Hotch's nose. "There's no A-team or B-team or anything like that. We're just as good as them but in different ways." It sounds like bureaucratic bullshit, a lie but they let it slide.

Then there is a buzz of questions being shot at him and he finds himself missing the silence that once reigned.

"_Who are they exactly?" _

"_Why weren't we told sooner man?" _

"_Have we met them before?" _

"_What's their level of security clearance?" _

The last inquiry outweighs all the others and they quiet themselves, staring at Hotch with large, searching eyes because the level of clearance says more about a team than any file ever could.

"Last _I_ checked, we have top security clearance." They all turn toward the entrance, hands twitching to their holstered weapons.

The man standing before them wears a feral grin. Dark green jeans offset with a purple V-neck, gun secured in a holster on his hip, "But then again, I wouldn't really trust me and my merry band of misfits with all the government's secrets. Would you?"

X

**A/N: This is the first chapter and the next one should be up in a week or so. Please review and tell me what you think, constructive criticism is always helpful. **


	2. Chapter 2

They stare at him, this creature that has seen to come from nowhere sitting cross-legged in a chair across from them looking so _smug_. There seems to be an aura about him, something shiny and slick.

He stares back at them, green eyes flicking to each agent before settling on Aaron Hotchner and leveling him with a sliced grin. He knows a leader when he sees one.

"What about you Aaron? Would you trust us with your secrets?" And there is something about the "us" that hints at others like him that makes the other's stomachs flip.

"That's irrelevant," Hotchner answers, the same calmness ever present in the stoic voice. There's something in his eyes that finally fades and he extends his hand. "Do I get a name?"

The Joker returns the handshake, smiling mischievously. "My _very few_ friends call me—"

"Jay and you're late," A new voice rings out. The Joker merely rolls his eyes.

"I _told_ you I would be."

Bruce Wayne stifles the urge to roll his eyes at the whining tone. The agents are looking at him but he is only focused on the harlequin with a gun on his belt. There are no carved smiles or bullets casings so he considers the possibility of this actually working.

"Agents," he addresses them all. They look at their leader, then him, taking in his expensive suit, Armani watch, and purposely-ruffled hair. He could probably pass for a politician, he thinks, but smiles nonetheless.

Morgan immediately doesn't trust him. He's never trusted those with equal part wealth and influence. They cause trouble for people like him. Though the connection between the other man, Bruce Wayne, and his boss is both confusing and strange and he quickly becomes determined to figure it out.

A stolen glance at his teammates faces show that they aren't buying his act either. To most, they would look impassive but he has worked with these individuals far too long to not know their subtle tells.

"Please have a seat," Bruce goes on, gaze hardening as it land on this "J" character as if he has to bully him into completing a simple task, as if he knew him well.

"Mr. Wayne I fail to see the reason for your visit," Hotch says politely, taking his seat.

"I assure you agent Hotchner, I'm not some overzealous celebrity trying to bank on the problems in Gotham. I'm here on official matters, unofficially of course."

"Of course," Prentiss echoes and no one has to search for the sarcasm. Joker's lips twitch and he covers his chuckles with a cough. He does not miss the slight looks being sent his way but he ignores them, getting easily distracted by the view outside the window.

"This is Jay, a representative of A6-17. The others can't meet you for reasons you'll find out later." Bruce pauses, glancing at each face. They don't interrupt but he can see the questions brewing. "You might be wondering how I know this. I'm the one that funds it. A6-17 is my own creation."

"So what exactly is it?" Rossi had never been one to smother effectiveness under technicalities and protocol. He is old fashioned, blunt, and at moments like these, vital to the team.

Bruce exchanges a good look with the blonde man. It's charged and full of little nuggets of dialogue that only they can understand. The blonde nods after a moment and offers a smile that could almost be encouraging.

"A6-17 is comprised of…criminals, highly skilled, self-taught criminals that have entered into this to aid Gotham."

"You mean when they aren't out pillaging?" Emily says, face drawn and contemptuous. The air is sour now, filled with unease.

"Don't be overdramatic Agent," The blonde drawls lazily, tongue darting out to moisten plump lips. Green hellfire burns in his eyes. "We aren't _that _bad. At least not anymore." A low, throaty chuckle, another swipe of the tongue, eyes assessing every face before landing on Bruce.

"I have to go." He rises from his chair, thin limbs in a lethal grace, gun jostling on his hip.

"Where?" Bruce asks, uncomfortable with the thought of this man being unsupervised for any length of time. His fists ball on the tabletop.

"Everywhere," Joker says. "See ya later, agents." He offers another nasty grin and leaves, disappearing from sight. His absence brings a modicum of ease back to the agent's bellies and Hotch exhales a sigh.

"I know this is something you aren't used to," Bruce says, looking very tired. "I can't say they'll trust you because I know they won't. But they won't harm you and with all do respect, Gotham isn't like anything you've ever encountered. You need them."

Hotch listens, face the same unreadable mask. He knows Wayne has a point, can see the honesty on his face, in the depths of those dark eyes.

"Alright," he says. "We'll meet them tonight. But for right now let's get done what we can."

Bruce is relieved and rises from his chair, sold weight easily managed. "Thank you for your cooperation. I'll send a car to pick you up later this evening."

He shakes hands with Hotch and leaves.

XXXxxxxxx

Ivy regards the space with only mild interest. It is one of Wayne's houses in Gotham. Not as large as the mansion but large enough for at least three full sized families to live in and never see each other.

"Will you stop pacing?" Crane says from the couch, large leather-bound book in his hands. "It's distracting."

"We can't all entertain ourselves with medical journals," she retorts. He mumbles something under his breath that she can't hear. She scowls and stalks to the kitchen, heels clicking against the floor in a continuous rhythm. It is late, nearly morning and she has been up for far too long with not enough caffeine.

"Wayne has a nice collection. Surprisingly. I'm sure you can find something." He's in a charcoal grey suit, dark brown hair mussed, stubble protruding from his square jaw.

"I'd rather blow something up." The coffee in the pot is from this morning but that doesn't deter her from pouring a cup.

"Wouldn't we all?" A new voice chimes and the two other criminals barely glance up as the Joker makes his way into the living room, collapsing on Crane's lap without thought. The doctor huffs, seizes his hips and pushes him into the cushion next to him.

"Where's kitty cat?" His eyes dart, half-interested, around the space. He's surprisingly relaxed, all things considered and Ivy smirks around her coffee mug because she knows it won't last.

"She's coming," Ivy says. She gestures to the coffeepot but the blonde man declines with a shake of the head. She takes a moment to stare. She's never witnessed him free of war paint and hair-dye. If the world hadn't fucked him over, he could've been a heartbreaker. Now he's just a mesmerizing maelstrom of destruction.

"Can we all agree to behave when they arrive?" Crane asks, flipping a page in his book and sending a pointed look the harlequin's way. He's Jonathan today and far more rational than Crow could ever be.

"Behave? Why do I have a feeling you're only talking about J?" Selina Avery walks in, long-legged and hair falling over her shoulder. She's forgone the tight spandex in favor of something more casual: jeans, long sleeve-scarlet shirt, heeled boots.

"Hey!" the Joker protests. Jonathan merely shrugs, a smirk dotting the edge of his mouth.

Selina chuckles and accepts the mug of coffee Ivy offers her.

"It's for all of us," Jonathan says. He looks up from the thick tome in his hands. "We can't lie and say we'll like them. But the least we can do is not kill one of them. We did our homework. Their some of the best."

"But we're better."

Crane didn't refute the statement because he knew he couldn't. Instead, he turns back to his book. Ivy and Selina strike a conversation about lipstick and fight tactics, while the Joker leans his head against his shoulder, the picture of boredom. The villain slows his reading as he sees a pair of green eyes track the words.

He waits for a nod of greasy blonde hair before he turns the page.

X

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A/N: Next chapter they'll meet. Sorry for the delay. Please review!


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